


A Part of the Main

by k8ec



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Lestrade does some observing of his own., post-TBB, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:44:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k8ec/pseuds/k8ec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only at times such as these that Lestrade could see it - that John Watson was really not so many years older than Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Part of the Main

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted at FFNet. An attempt at a more serious style - with which I never really seem to be happy. And need I say it? - Sherlock & John belong to ACD & the BBC. I just get to play with the characters occasionally!

It was only at times such as these that Lestrade could see it. 

The fact that John Watson was really not so many years older than Sherlock – two or three at most – which put him a good _fourteen years_ younger than himself!

It was a bit of a shock to realize.

Maybe it was because, whilst awake, the man exuded a quiet strength and reliability which gave the impression of a maturity far beyond that of the sometimes hyperactive consulting detective. 

Or maybe it was the weathered, tanned face; the lines on his forehead and around his eyes from squinting into strong sunlight; or the almost haunted look in his eyes at particularly gory murder scenes, when he thought no-one could see him.

Lestrade had watched him on numerous occasions, standing apart, viewing the dramas unfolding around him as if he was the one still point in a turning world; an island separate from the main; a grounding rod for the electro-magnetism of his flatmate.

In repose – natural or situational such as this – the lines of past worries and pain faded from his face, allowing his real age to be clearly read. 

And on the rare occasions when he was surprised into a fleeting, genuine smile, a glimpse of the person he was _before_ Afghanistan could be seen – a more carefree, almost happy-go-lucky individual so different from the man he currently knew.

Lestrade stood back lost in his thoughts, as the paramedics bustled increasingly frantically around the victims at the crime scene. 

How long had John Watson actually served in combat zones? He’d mentioned it once in passing. Six? … Eight years? He must have deployed virtually straight after graduating. Had he even learned what a ‘normal’ life ungoverned by studies or the military was like before he lost it? 

No wonder he had trouble adapting on his return!

Greg had done a check on Dr. John Watson after the _‘Pink’_ case. 

The results had been interesting, and went a long way to explain the doctor’s interest both in medicine and crime: parents killed in a preventable accident, sister an alcoholic, Armed Forces Scholarship to attend medical school, then three tours of duty, numerous citations, medals for bravery and a career ending injury.

How he’d made it to his thirties without becoming hard or embittered was a genuine surprise to Lestrade, and he wondered if Sherlock had any idea the true caliber of the man he’d taken on as a flatmate.

He watched the paramedics lift the stretcher carefully into the ambulance, Sherlock following closely, despite their obvious reluctance.

As much as Anderson and others joked about the doctor being Sherlock’s guard dog, when John was injured or absent it was the detective who looked like a lost puppy. 

Lestrade sighed. 

For all the good John had done to make Sherlock more than bearable these past months, if anything serious happened to him, the effect on the young man hovering over the stretcher would make future work endeavours exceedingly difficult. 

He’d seen it happen to officers who’d lost a partner. Something inside them shut off and to some extent they seemed to lose their ability to connect with those around them. 

Having let the doctor under his defenses, Sherlock would not take it well.

Sighing, the DI pushed off the wall of the dingy London lane and made his way towards the ambulance. 

The prognosis seemed promising, Thank God! Sherlock had managed to minimize the blood loss so as to ensure John’s survival.

He’d only been around a few months, but John Watson had more than made a place for himself in Sherlock’s life. He’d also managed to make one in the life and operation of Lestrade’s team, and if the doctor had died, they too would have been diminished by his loss!

He climbed into the waiting car, resigned to another long night. _‘Better that than a wake!’_ he thought, resolving to find some way of showing the doctor that he no longer needed to hold himself apart from the people with whom he worked closest. 

He was not alone. He had friends.

 

_#_#_#_

>   
> No man is an island entire of itself; every man   
> is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;   
> if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe   
> is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as   
> well as a manor of thy friends or of thine   
> own were; any man's death diminishes me,   
> because I am involved in mankind.   
> And therefore never send to know for whom   
> the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.  
> 

_John Donne_

 

_#_#_#_#_#_#_


End file.
